


Pasta

by StoryQueen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Creepypasta, Drug Use, Slenderman - Freeform, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoryQueen/pseuds/StoryQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Truth be told, stupid people do stupid things. They try and contact the dead, try and summon demons. They try to find the worlds beyond logic. The man in the leather jacket took my hand and showed me the world of lies, showed me how fake that world really was. It was dead, everything about it was dead, yet the glint of in his eyes of the delusional hope that his fingers could brush again his mother's loving palm once again as he reached out into the darkness told me to keep my own fingers firmly weaved within his as we let the shadows crash down around us, absorbing and consuming the light that held us in reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nemesis

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. :)
> 
> So, I really should give credit to all my inspiration...
> 
> Most importantly: Lupus Creepus (YouTube.) I think if anyone knows him and his channel, then you can see how much he has inspired this story. With the videos he makes to the looks and back-stories of him and the man in the leather jacket, Lupus is a huge inspiration for his character.
> 
> The girl is inspired by Karukara (Tumblr,) funnily enough, even though 'she' is actually a he [yeah, he was a she when I wrote this. He is now a he and will be a he as long as he says he is a he. :D ]. I've followed his blog for quite a while now, and I just really like him as a person and as an artist. :) Stay fabulous, Karu! :D <3
> 
> And the χ is inspired by Zayn Malik (One Direction). Only briefly...
> 
> And the main character is me, so.... Yeah....
> 
> The title is called Pasta because... well... Creepypastas...... No other explanation, apart from the fact that I love pasta! :D ~Vee  
> (I'm not Italian... Totally Welsh! :D )
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! :D
> 
> \-- Jess

 

 

 

> **Nemesis**
> 
> **[nem-uh-sis]**
> 
> **noun, plural nemeses**
> 
> **1: something a person cannot conquer, achive, etc.:  
>       The performance test proved to be my nemesis. **
> 
> **2: an oponent or rival whom a person cannot best or overcome.**
> 
> **3: (initial capital letter) Classical Mythology. the goddess of divinertribution.**
> 
> **4: an agent or act of retribution or punishment.**

He pulled me over in the corridor. I didn't know his name-- quite honestly, never really bothered to learn it-- but by the curtained bleach-blonde hair, squinting, radioactively alive eyes and the black T shirt under the military green leather jacket, he probably had a simple, pathetic name like Bob, or David, and he probably used an alias, maybe not his middle name, judging by the stupidity of his mother's choice (mothers choice, not fathers. This was obvious by the way he stood; close relationship with his mother), and the fake name was probably something to do with vampires, judging by the 'Vampires Don't Suck; You Do' self-printed picture pasted onto the front of the shirt. He was glaring at me, not that I expected his eyelids to open more than he already had them in this light, obviously more used to the darkness than the bright florescent school corridor light bulbs, and his fingers twined in the fabric of my faded Coca-Cola T shirt.

"You the kid who made the music video? You know, the one with the illusion-- warehouse thingy?"

Damn AS Media Studies and all the coursework we're forced to do. I nodded. That music video took me three seconds to think up and three months to make, and all I got was three minutes worth of C level work. I glared after nodding.

He smirked, and I cringed at the obsession this boy held for vampires, getting a glimpse of the self-sharpened front teeth which must have been done in the dark in a small bathroom with his mother's nail-file. He released my shirt and let me stumble back as he rolled his shoulders. "Man, do I have a job for you." He looked up at the ceiling, bringing his hands up together to swipe them across the imaginary horizon beyond his vision. "Opportunity of a lifetime."

"Do I get paid?"

He chuckled, laughed a moment, then patted me on the shoulder. "Money doesn't matter when you're--"

"You're gonna pay me, right?"

He gave me a look, looping his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in closer. A few other students in the corridor looked over, rolling their eyes, giving me sympathetic looks before carrying on to their next lesson. Screw my timetable for making me have a free at that moment. He still smirked down at me. "You don't even know what the job is yet."

"Do you need me to--" I ducked out of his arm "-- make you a music video for you band, or something?"

His smiled faulted as he rolled his eyes. He attempted to grab my shirt again, which now I know is a common thing for him to do, clingy little bastard, but I stepped backwards. He had his own God-damn shirt; he didn't need to grab hold of mine so much. He stepped into my space again-- one more move and my fist was going to his balls-- and he smirked again. "We need someone on camera."

"For what?"

"I," he stepped back, placing a hand on his chest, chin up, proud look on his face, "am a YouTuber."

I sniggered. "How many subscribers?"

"Two-hundred. And I--"

"Two-thousand."

He glared at me again. "'Two-thousand', what?"

"Subscribers," I smirked, "on my channel."

He breathed in sharply, only evident by the movement in his chest, and his lips pouted. "What exactly do you do on your channel? Vlog about the latest fashion trends or about whatever nail polish you bought from Lush?"

I rolled my eyes. "Fuck off."

"What, 'How to Fuck Off?' Sounds interesti--"

I punched his shoulder. Just felt like it. He was pissing me off, and I could see the red target board painted on his shoulde-- whoops, that was just his messenger bag strap. Easy mistake when you're pissed off. He stumbled back, wincing, and quite frankly I was about to kick up at his balls, but I guess he should thank he lucky stars that Jane, my English Lit teacher, walked out of the classroom nearby and smiled at me. Can't beat up a guy with the nicest teacher ever stood close by. Don't wanna scare the old lady.

The boy lent up against the wall next to me. "You've got quite a punch," he commented, stupidly, might I add, and he sank down to the floor. Oh, what the heck... I sat down next to him, glaring blankly at him. It was quite for a moment, quite enough to notice myself comparing his baggy, ripped, muddy, un-ironed, dusty, dirty jeans to my un-creasable black skinny jeans. Odd thing to be comparing, but I guess it told me a lot about his home and background. Lives in a council house with his mother, single (both him and his mother), eats whatever his friends give him from their lunches and goes home to beans on toast. Owns a cat, judging by the cat hairs around his ankles, but they don't feed the cat. Cat feeds itself; the boy just plays with it. This was my judgement of this boy. He was pathetic. Utterly pathetic and I despised him.

"I'll do it."

He turned his head to look at me. "You will?" He gave me a judging eye before screwing his lips, shifting his arse around so he could face me. "You don't even know what we do."

"We?"

"I have a team."

I closed my eyes. I hated this guy. "What do you do, then?"

"You've already agreed, so don't back out now. You can't." He grabbed my shoulder again, his grimy fingers burying themselves deep within the freshly washed fabric. He locked eyes with me, and he smiled. "Promise?"

"You're acting like you're in Primary, not college."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever."

He tilted his head down, looking through his greasy eyelashes and fringe, smirking on the right side of his face.

"We hunt monsters."


	2. Marooned

 

 

> **Marooned**
> 
> **[muh-roon]**
> 
> **verb**
> 
> **1- to put ashore and abandon on a desolate island or coast by way ofpunishment or the like, as was done by buccaneers.**
> 
> **2- to place in an isolated and often dangerous position:  
>      " _The_ _ rising floodwaters marooned us on top of the house."_**
> 
> ** 3- to abandon and leave without aid or resources:  
>       " _Having  lost all his money, he was marooned in the strange city."_ **

 

 

It was about three days after we met that he texted me. Somehow, he had my mobile number, and somehow he managed to find out my address.

_'im outside havin meetin cum on'_

I looked out of my bedroom window, and yes, there he was, backpack swung low on his back, one foot on the floor and the other on his almost invisible bike in the unlit country road outside my house, the reflection of the sun on the moon cascading around the top of his black hoodie and shining off the Nike symbol of his shoes giving the only indication of his position.

 _'How the Hell did you find my house?'_ I texted back. I saw the figure move, and the light of his phone illuminated his face with an eerie glow. He smirked at his screen, sharp teeth glinting along with the white gum he had glued behind his gnashers, and he looked up to my bedroom window.

_'cum here'_

_'Only when you learn to type in English.'_

_'my ancestors were sweedist'_

_'Swedish?'_

_'no they werent veg'_

I shoved my phone in my pocket, because this guy was ridiculous, and I reluctantly grabbed my jacket, glancing at the clock which I’m sure was a couple hours slow, because it couldn’t be this dark at five in the afternoon, and went downstairs. My parents only smile at me as I put my shoes on. I would like to say they didn’t care where I was, but they do; they probably just assumed I had made some unmentioned friend and was going shopping, or something of the sorts. They were accepting parents, which was nice, until they take their stereotypicalness too far. I like Lush— yes— but I don’t need my en suit to reek of Strawberry Surprise and Lemon Sherbet Sunday.

It was cold outside, and the winter air hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. Damn asthma wrapped a corset around my lungs as I pulled my jacket over to hide the damn Victorian strangler. I saw the dragon’s breath simmer across the top of the dead hedge on the other side of the road, and my own breath followed as I walked towards him.

"It’s too cold," I said, pulling my hand-worn fingerless gloves/mitten thing out of my pocket and rolled them down my hands.

I saw him smirk, the steam rolling out from his parted lips, and then I realised it wasn’t steam, it was smoke, and the kindle between his far hand came into view has he steadied himself on the bike handle. “Come on. We’ve got a meeting.”

"Where?"

He threw the cigarette onto the floor and pulled off on his bike, stomping out the glow with his tyre as he turned around to face the direction of town. He rode slowly so I could keep up with him, trudging through the slush-banks of the road. “We have a HQ.”

I huffed. “Really?”

He threw a smile at me in the darkness. “Yeah. Me mate has a tree house in the garden. Kinda like in those American movies, ya know. Big. Lots of room.” He swerved a little as he let go of the handles to show me with his hands how big it was. “‘Bout the size of my house.”

"Your friend nice?" I asked.

He snorted. “e’s alright. Pothead at times, but e’s alright.” He slowed his bike down a little, peeping at me from behind his hood. “Don’t take anything e offers ya, okay? Even the tea is laced with acid.” I laughed. “I’m serious.”

"Okay."

We rode and walked in silence for a while. A few cars passed on the country lane, one pulling over to yell at us because “you teenagers are bloody suicidal in all black at night” which was a lie, because my jacket was deep blue and the boy’s military green leather jacket was wrapped over his hoodie like it was his second skin, just a skin that came off and let things underneath it. No, it was less than a skin and more of a tattoo. A mark. A scar.

We found a stretch of road with streetlamps, and at this point he drew down his hood, shaking his mane of hair loose from where it was tucked in, and glared sideways at me.

"You got a camera?"

"I hadn’t thought to bring one."

"We have one." He pulled the bike out in front of me to let a man and his dog walk past. He pulled back and rode alongside me again. "Just it’s a crappy-definition one." He did a once-over on my clothes as we walked under an orange-tinted lamp. "Bet yours is HD."

"Mine needs charging."

"Well charge it. Bring it to the next meeting." He was snobby for someone who was poor, and although I had the upper hand, because pushing him off his unsteady, rusty bike into the ditch of the field next to us was easy, I didn’t want to risk murdering him, temping as it was, so instead I shoved my hands into my pocket and squeezed my phone until the cracked phone case drew blood from my white knuckles.

"Are we there yet?"

He sniggered. “I live on the other side of town.” We were just bordering the main town from the village I lived in.

"You’re making me walk all this way?" I paused. "You walked all this way just to get me?"

"Yeah. It’s dangerous for people to walk alone in the dark. At least I had my bike."

I huffed, noticing he was peddling a bit faster, and jogged to catch up. “Dude, you could have texted me the address and my dad could drop me off in the car.”

He snorted. “I bet your dad would be disgraced to even step a toe in my neighbourhood.”

Again, temptation to push him off his probably stolen bike was high. “What makes you think I want to be in your neighbourhood?”

"Well," he slowed his peddling down back to the rate it was before, "because you’re nice. You’re not judging like the others."

"Neither’s my dad."

"That’s obvious."

I glared at the back of his blonde head. “What do you know about me?” I asked.

I could head the smile echo through the built up street as we passed WH Smiths. He jumped off his bike, never loosing the momentum as he pushed the bike on the other side of him than I was walking. He threw me a wink. “You live with your dad, who sells machines at Harding’s, inc. Your mum lives the other side of the country, and you visit her every holidays. She is an author. And you—” he took a hand off the bike and jabbed it in my chest “— are awesome.”

I glared. “What defies me as awesome?”

"Well, you like Fall out Boy."

"Says who?"

"Says you when you made the ‘All About Me’ vlog two years ago." Oh, I see. He checked out my YouTube channel. How did the bastard even get Internet? School library. Why was he stalking me? I guess it was easier than an interview for the job.

Hunting monsters. We were going to hunt monsters. I still had no idea what this meant. Were we going to make short sketches of something similar to the TV show, Supernatural? Were we going to— okay, Supernatural was my only idea of what we could be doing. This guy couldn’t possibly expect me to go out in the wood in the middle of the night and hunt… vampires, or something.

He laughed at my silence. “You’re good at talking to the camera. Why don’t you talk to me the same way?”

"Because you reply."

"So do your subscribers: in the comments." He sped up walking. "Here we are," he said before I could reply, and he turned and walked in front of me, making me stub my toes in the back of my other foot so I didn’t collide with him, and I followed him down his path through the overgrown, uncut grass in his front garden.

He led me round the back, which I guess made sense because one, he had his bike, and two, I guess the amount of beer bottles increased the further into the bowels of this tip-hole you went. He struggled with the gate, a layer of rust and cigarette ash smothering the bolt, but he kicked it open and we crossed the back-jungle to the far fence.

"I thought you said we were going to your mate’s house?" I asked, but then after squinting my eyes, I realised. "Oh, right." Overhanging the back fence was a tree, and said tree housed a house, quite frankly, it was a majestic house, not in the light of the night, but maybe by day, yeah, majestic. His mate lived behind him.

The boy lent his bike against the fence, wobbling it until it was steady, and then, slipping a few times on the snow on the bottom of his shoes, climbed up so he was standing on the seat. Leaning his back against the fence, he reached up, gripping something hidden between the dead branches and yanked it down. A rope ladder. He nodded at me. “First.”

I wove my fingers around the rotting rope and gave the ladder a quick tug. The branches above us creaked with the strain, and the boy had to give me a somewhat reassuring laugh to get me to place my foot on the splintering wooden bars.

I climbed. I got to the ledge just inside and I looked into the house. A small campfire was burning in the centre— how I didn’t see the light from it from below, I don’t know— and huddling up to it was two hooded figures. They projected tall, twiny shadows up the insides of the house that spiraled and twisted until they looked more like the dead tree we were in than humans. They ignored me, more focused on rubbing their hands in the little warmth the fire produced.

The sound of a lighter clicked in my ear, and the smell of something not quite tobacco filled my constricted lungs. The boy pushed past me and crawled into the house and sat beside the taller of the two figures. He took a drag before passing the flame to his friend, leaning his head back as the hit clouded his mind. Without looking, he jabbed a finger out into the space between him and the smaller figure.

I crawled across the floor— I could have walked, but I couldn’t be bothered— and sat where I was commanded to, giving a somewhat awkward smile to the person next to me. They turned to look at me, the firelight making their face glow red, and then I realised, no, it was the hair that gave the red tint. She smiled at me, round faced with a bob of blood, curly hair nested under the hood, glowing wolf eyes piercing through the shadow on her forehead. She smiled as her fingers traced the circle of the solid, black pentagram necklace she had resting on her upper sternum, the black lace noosed around her neck suffocatingly tight. She was beautiful in a sort of depressing way, like looking at a wedding cake while you’re single and fat. She was probably single— no, in fact, I had no doubt in my mind. Single by choice; college asexual until girls came into her life in uni (I doubted boys served her interest apart from the ones on her Tumblr dashboard.) Her smile was genuine for someone who didn’t use her eyes to do so, and her lips never parted as if she felt the same awkwardness that I did, like it was a shared connection we had that made me feel more at home surrounded by these satanists.

Her eyes flicked to look at the piece of paper that was once scrunched up in the green leather jacket’s pocket but was now being held above the fire in our direction. “This is the first one we’ll try,” he proclaimed, smiling at the girl and then to me. He had already shown the paper to the  sat next to him, who seemed more interested in sucking the life out of the blunt than then the meeting at hand. The paper read ‘Slenderman’.

I laughed. “Slenderman?”

The girl huffed an almost silent giggle. “Bit ambitious.”

The boy roared a snigger of pride and reeled the paper back into his pocket. “Never. This is the perfect opportunity to hunt the bastard.” He pulled out another piece of paper from his other pocket, holding it up to show us. “See. We just go into the woods, draw an ‘X’ in a circle on twelve pieces of paper, place the papers in the shape of a clock, shout “Slendy, I summon you” and then go to sleep.”

I rolled my eyes. “Wait, you’re gonna try and summon Slenderman?” I huffed. “He’s a creepypasta legend.”

"Exactly." He edged forward in his seat. "Creepypasta legend. There’s a reason that there’s so much creepypasta legends."

"Because people have good imaginations?" The girl next to me giggled at my comment.

"No, because some of them are real."

"But which ones?"

He smirked, pointing a finger at me before moving it around, gesturing to the small community around the campfire. “That’s our job. To do the rituals, to hunt the monsters to see if they’re real. We don’t just find them; we prove to the world that they’re real.”

I turned to look at the girl next to me, and I was half-surprised, half-expectant to find her smiling aweingly at the blonde’s smirking face. I huffed. “Slenderman?” I asked. She turned and look at me, the same aweing expression. “Seriously?”

She smiled sweetly. “Of course. Why not?”

I glared at leather-jacket. “Do you seriously think drawing X’s in circles will summon Slenderman?”

"Well, it’s the best I could find. I don’t think saying him name in the bathroom mirror is gonna get him to drag his arse all the way to England, now is it?"

"And paper will?"

He lent across the fire and placed his cold, dirty finger against my lips. “You’re not in a position to decide what we hunt. You’re our camera manager. All you can tell us is ‘move over a little to the left’ and ‘action’.” He patted my cheek for good measure before coiling back to his seat.

"And what about you?" I asked. "What your job?"

"I," he placed his hand on his chest, "am the head hunter. I do the rituals and summon he beasts."

"I’m the peace-offering," the girl said, still smiling. "Young, virgin girl. Apparently I’m the only one in college." That was not true. Seemed like it, though.

"And e," I looked at where the boy was jabbing a thumb at the pothead beside him, "is our psychic."

The psychic looked over the top of irs hand holding the blunt and glared at me. e didn’t say anything, not really the type to do much, but just gave me this look of resentment. I don’t think e hated me, just hated people in general.

"So," I said, glancing at the group, "you’re the leader, she’s the sacrifice and thingy's the translator?" I bit my tongue.

"And you’re the one who’s gonna make us famous," the boy said with a grin. "We’ll catch Slenderman on tape— or maybe in a net, if we’re lucky— and we’ll be famous."

I glanced at the girl. “If he seven or seventeen?” She shrugged.

"I’m eighteen, thank you very much. Now," he reached over into a box in the corner and pulled out a cheaper version of the camera I use, "this is yours—"

"If I don’t use my own."

"— now make sure you look after it, because it was my mums, okay?"

I shrugged. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

He smiled at me as my hands wrapped around the old piece of technology. He kept hold of it, letting the heat from my warm fingers sink through his cold hands into his veins. He locked eyes with me, smiling, before frowning as I whipped the camera from his grasp and placed it on my lap. He breathed in heavily, probably trying to take in some of the smoke that was floating around the air, which he probably gave up on because he reached over and took the kindling blunt from his friend’s shaky fingers and sucked another hit from it. He breathed out, letting the smoke weave it’s way towards my chest. He chuckled. “Well team,” he said, smiling at each of us individually, “let’s catch ourselves a Slenderman.”


End file.
